Jenne' Andrews is an American poet. She has three published chapbooks including the recent Blackbirds Dance in the Empire of Love, Finishing Line Press 2013.

A full-length collection, Reunion, Lynx House Press, was published in 1983; after a long hiatus to raise Golden Retrievers in Colorado, recent work has appeared in The Passionate Transitory, Belletrist Coterie, The Adirondack Review and Vox Populi, a journal of culture, politics and poetry published and edited by the august Michael Simms.

A bilingual collection of "Italiana," Bocca, Voce, Delirio, with translations by Lorenzo Luciani, will be released by Finishing Line at the end of 2016 and her latest collection, And Now, the Road, a finalist for the Autumn House prize in 2014, will be released by Salmon Poetry Ltd, Ireland, a highly regarded international house, Jessie Lendennie, Publisher, circa 2017.

Andrews holds the MFA in Creative Writing/Poetry from Colorado State University, is a literary fellow of the National Endowment for the Arts, and was full-time Poet in Residence for the St. Paul Schools from '74-78. She lived in St. Paul from 1971-78 during the first wave of the Twin Cities literary renaissance, and spent the summer of 1973 in Reggio Calabria, Italy.

The poet lives in northern Colorado's Poudre River Valley with her husband, fiction writer Jack Brooks; the couple has recently imported two British Golden Retrievers and expects a litter in June-- see the Ardorgold website for details. Contact: jenneandrews2010@gmail.com .

Monday, May 9, 2011

New Poem: Bread-Making, for Magpie Tales-Monday

To participate in this great writing meme, click here.  


Somehow I slipped over the edge of my own craft, the wheelchair in the living room filled with water where Mother hangs from the ceiling, a Doric puppet with a circus grin.

I knew the road was arcane but I followed it room to room, sniffing out happiness.  Can anyone see it?  It fleeth like a shadow.  A tome in my desk, my great grandmother in the white white dress, corseted, looking out—that restrained Victorian joy, the piano with the chipped ivory keys I inherited in the background.

Love is in the background and my depression crests in me like a tide of black hot oil.  I know what to do: down the gullet goes the pill, on the stereo goes the Bach and the rich chords begin to caress the mind and throw a life preserver to the heart.  I am so broken, used up.  I am so tired and I remind myself of the dark sweatshirt thrown down on the bed

Or the black lambskin jacket thrown over the chair—perhaps I am being punished for the killing of lambs.  Someone brings a lantern and weakly I hobble my way down the corridors—but I see them filling with water and insane laughter and so I turn back to what I know

Like St. Francis, I gather up the half-fledged doves. Singing alleluias I mix hot milk, yeast, flour, honey, and knead, knead for my life.

copyright Jenne' R. Andrews 2011


Arian Tejano said...

You have a way with prose poem. Your sense of rhythm is fantastic. Love at first read.

Anonymous said...

This is a beauty within a tender ache. Nicely done.

Old Ollie said...

Nice write JRA! Excellent narrative.

Tess Kincaid said...

Brilliant write. "...Doric puppet with a circus grin" really struck a chord with me.

Kim Nelson said...

The third stanza is intensely bleak and tender. The last? Redeeming and active, as if the narrator could now take action, take control (as if that's really possible).

Friko said...

I'm here first time and you hit me with this. There are so many so-so magpies around that I find it quite hard to persevere in my search for the outstanding.

I am glad I persevered. I don't fully understand your symbolism but it is powerful nevertheless. So much bland pap and then this.

I need to find you again and check out your blog so I shall follow you.

Jingle said...

Love is in the background and my depression crests in me like a tide of black hot oil...

stunning words, love your magpie.

Steve Isaak said...

Again, excellent, bustling with vividity.

Trellissimo said...

Bleak but powerful - not the thing to read on an already bad day thought!